


stringe il cuore della stella morente

by partywitharichzombie



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: (fuckbuddies to teammates to championship rivals), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ferrari is Competitive AU, Friends With Benefits, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28202115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partywitharichzombie/pseuds/partywitharichzombie
Summary: The announcement is almost poetic in its sweet simplicity: a photo of Daniel, aged three, thecavallino rampantea stark contrast against the white of his oversized t-shirt, radiant grin as disarming then as it is now. No caption. None necessary.(Daniel signs with Ferrari for 2021 and beyond. He hopes he and Charles can avoid ending up in a scenario of assured mutual destruction.)
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Daniel Ricciardo, Charles Leclerc/Sebastian Vettel
Comments: 9
Kudos: 55
Collections: F1 Soup Kitchen Secret Santa 2020





	stringe il cuore della stella morente

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ssilverarrowss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssilverarrowss/gifts).



> My dearest Len a.k.a. AO3 user [ssilverarrowss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssilverarrowss/pseuds/ssilverarrowss)... This is probably the furthest take possible from what you had in mind. Hope you can find some enjoyment in reading this regardless, Mäuschen <3
> 
> Many, many thanks to [wintrs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintrs/pseuds/wintrs) for beta reading this fic. Couldn't have done this without you. Thank you, thank you. You now share the custody of my theoretical progeny :screm:
> 
> Thank you to [legendofthefireemblem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/legendofthefireemblem/pseuds/legendofthefireemblem) for the hard work in organizing the exchange!
> 
> Couldn't have done this without all the love and support from everyone in the Soup Kitchen as well, you lot are the real ones.
> 
> Anyway. Started a draft for another prompt, binned it, switched to this one, binned this draft too, started again, went through several breakdowns... Bon appétit?

The announcement is almost poetic in its sweet simplicity: a photo of him, aged three, the  _ cavallino rampante  _ a stark contrast against the white of his oversized t-shirt, radiant grin as disarming then as it is now. No caption. None necessary.

Daniel ends his call with Blake. Michael still hasn’t returned from his running errands after their training session, always with some babysitting duties to be done—the baby in question just so happens to drive cars at three-fifty kilometers per hour. So he looks over the to-do list Aurélie sent him earlier, packed full to the brim it’s almost overwhelming. He puts off posting a personal announcement on the ‘Gram for later after contemplating if he should ask her to do it for him instead. He’ll scrape something up, it will probably feel more sincere coming from him.

The flight to Milan leaves in three hours, yet his belongings are still scattered in disarray across his apartment. He almost trips over his suitcase on the way to the bathroom. It lies unzipped and empty bar a few teamwear polo shirts and a hoodie from his merchandise line.

_ You were cute, _ the text he received just as he is about to hop into the shower reads.

_ I’m not cute now? _

Two laughing emojis followed by an eye-roll.  _ You didn’t tell me. _

_ Binotto didn’t tell you? _

_ No. _

_ I was bound by like ten pages of NDA,  _ Daniel sends the reply before he undresses, stretching, neck and back muscles still sore from the session Michael made him suffer through.  _ Kinda don’t want to be sued. _

_ You can pay. _

Daniel snickers. Of course he can afford it,  _ merci beaucoup _ Renault. He snaps a photo just revealing enough to be intriguing yet leaving plenty to the imagination still, and attaches it to the message.  _ You didn’t answer my question. Am I still cute now?  _ A winking face emoji.

_ I will stay at the Mandarin Oriental  _ is an unexpected answer, but it’s certainly a better one than a mere  _ yes, you are,  _ he thinks. Cheeky bastard, this Charles Leclerc.

* * *

Thursdays on a race weekend are a mixed bag. There are slower ones: non-answers aplenty, not a single spark flying between team principals and drivers alike, the hottest topic being an aero upgrade Williams made.

This particular media day at Monza is anything but.

Silly season kicked into gear earlier than usual, the news coming out of Maranello being the talk of the paddock across several race weekends. He remembers scoffing at the wording of the press release.  _ Deciding not to extend their contract  _ is quite the euphemism, such legalese nonsense.

It really is that easy to be discarded, to become so expendable. Twenty seats, fewer competitive ones, too many hopefuls. A game of musical chairs of the highest stakes. Been there, done that. Daniel almost feels sorry for Sebastian, but maybe he can use a fresh start to get himself into gear again. One is only as good as their last race, but talent and skills don’t just vanish, especially not of a four-time champion.

He didn’t need to have to tell Blake to give them a ring—when Daniel’s phone rang half an hour later, a meeting had already been arranged. Picking up where they left off in 2018.

Sebastian has the titles, he had the pit wall’s favor when the two of them were paired at Red Bull—but Daniel has beaten him and seized the team from him once already. The ink has dried. He is to take Sebastian’s seat for next season. And his teammate with it. 

And Daniel has a clear head start on the latter already. The cheap thrills in the capital of hedonism last year, where the nights stretched thrice as long and  _ consequences _ existed only as a Mirriam-Webster entry. Taking each other apart after good results and particularly disappointing ones alike. Testing each other’s resolve, edging each other to the precipice.

It’s easy, it’s convenient. Pretending to be oblivious to whatever it is going on between his former and future teammates doesn’t take too much of an effort either. Daniel can’t help but wonder what it might be, only natural after such a damning slip up at the zenith of pleasure. One and a half seasons with Renault and his French is still very much limited to  _ merci  _ and  _ pardon _ and _ enchanté _ , but Daniel hasn’t forgotten his former teammate’s name, alright. Nor the way Charles pronounced each syllable, urgent as a plea.

In any case, it may very well just play into his hands, if he plays his cards right. Though Daniel sincerely hopes they will never have to resort to turning their weapons on one another, to end up in a scenario of assured mutual destruction. He really is rather fond of Charles.

It certainly helps that he’s just so fucking  _ good _ with his tongue.

* * *

PER to DXB to MXP lies ahead. Twenty plus hours of a journey before he’ll touch down on the land his parents hailed from, where memories from his early years as a racing driver are aplenty. Mornings spent training until his lungs were scorched. Racing, training again, crashing onto his dingy bunk drained and weary to the bone, rinse, repeat. Knowing his future was as uncertain as the changing tides. One is only as good as their last race, and the Red Bull junior program has always been nothing but cutthroat.

There are echoes from that time, remnants of the days long past. Daniel is about to step into the great unknown again, entering what many consider to be the lion’s den. Voluntarily. But he has his breadth of experience to guide him now. Has learned how to tame the wilderness, how to navigate the treacherous seas. And he has survived thus far.

He feels a buzz in his pocket.

_ Good luck, Daniel, you might need it. Say hello to the boys for me. _

If the text were from anyone else, it might inspire ire.  _ Cheers, Seb! I will. _

He is just about to turn his phone to airplane mode when he remembers to add,  _ And thanks for the Xmas card, mum loves it! Send Hanna and the kiddos my best. _

Luck. One can never have enough of it. It might be the extra thousandths of a second he needs, the difference between heartbreak and euphoria.

Daniel gears up for battle, readies his sword and shield.

He  _ will _ be glorious.

* * *

Piazza del Duomo is aflame by the hues of twilight, the gathering masses overflowing the streets leading up to the square. The stage is set. Maranello’s latest effort is about to be unveiled.

All pomp and grandeur, all magnificent splendor: Ferrari’s penchant for the dramatic is displayed in its full glory, the live orchestra and choir crescendoing into a grand finale as the curtain drops to thunderous applause. There it is, presented before the world, as much a work of art as it is an engineering marvel. The glossy finish of the  _ rosso corsa _ gleams under the gently swaying spotlights, matching the streamers and confetti glittering metallic red and silver and gold against the darkening sky.

Daniel adjusts the collar of his shirt before he follows Charles and their boss onto the stage. The fabric is starch-pressed, stiff against his skin. It almost feels like being thrown back to his first day of school. He runs a hand through the crest embroidered on the suit jacket just above his heart. The very same one printed on his t-shirt all those years ago.

He chances a look at his now-teammate. Charles’s head is bowed, and Daniel can’t tell if he is actually listening to their boss answering questions about the SF21. Daniel certainly isn’t. The lights make his eyes sting, its hue washing out Charles’s complexion even more. Under close scrutiny one may spot a bloom of maroon, stark against the pale skin of his jaw where Daniel’s thumb found its home last night.

The photo, his heritage—fans are quick to call it fate. Perhaps it is indeed foreordained. Nowhere did it say that he’s meant for glory, though, that’s reserved for their precious  _ Predestinato _ . Daniel has his own luck to make, his own destiny to shape.

The host turns to him, and Daniel slips back into his loquacious self, trademark smile ever a trusty armor.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Daniel Ricciardo! Welcome to Scuderia Ferrari.”

The roar of the crowd almost drowns out his answer. “ _ Grazie, grazie. _ It’s such an honor to be here!”

“Tell us how you feel. Settling in just fine, hopefully?”

“Yes! Maranello feels like home already. Everyone is so friendly and welcoming! I would appreciate a couple of real estate tips, though, I’m still searching for an apartment.”

“You can always crash a couple more nights at my place,” Charles chimes in, to Daniel’s surprise. He tries to keep the corners of his lips from twisting into an amused smirk. Wouldn’t Charles just like that.

“Yeah nah, your couch is bad for my back.” He puts a hand on Charles’s shoulder, winks at him for good measure just because he can. “But thanks for the offer, Charles, very kind.”

The host moves on and asks questions about their expectations going into the season (he repeats the lines fed to them at the PR briefing verbatim), how his simulator sessions have been going (”Quite well so far, yeah, just some minor kinks to smooth out.”). Brings a ripple of laughter through the audience with a trite joke in passable Italian. It’s really all about the delivery, and he sure knows how to send it. Daniel Ricciardo special, truly.

Daniel keeps it up, charisma tuned to eleven to make up for his butchery of the language. He ignores how Charles’s jaw clenches, how his hands curl tighter around the microphone he is holding, hesitating from putting a word in unless addressed, how his affable smile sours and takes after the glint of a just-honed saber. Maybe Charles wants the adoring crowd for himself. Envy isn’t a good look on him.

Daniel has yet to don the scarlet on the starting grid, and yet if he is to be presumptuous, he has managed to build a nest in the tifosi’s hearts. It’s an arduous task, inheriting the seat of someone so dear to the fans—a _ nd to his teammate _ . But Daniel may just come out of this tank full of bloodthirsty sharks with all his limbs and half his sanity intact.

_ Game on, darling. _

* * *

In theory, every race win is worth equal: a piece of silverware, twenty-five points to the driver’s name, an edit to their Wikipedia page. Some wins most definitely feel more special than the others, however. Taking victory in home soil especially so.

Albert Park erupts with euphoria when the chequered flag waves to embrace their hero home. The curse has been broken, and what a way to do it too—not everyone wins their debut race for Ferrari.

And Daniel simply doesn’t win boring races: his eighth career win may very well be one of the most intense ones, having fought his way from starting tenth on the grid after his MGU-K gave out in Q3. He dropped further back down the grid when he sustained damage in the first lap, and had to claw his way through the field again. The two safety cars and Mercedes not adapting well to the new Pirelli compound played to his advantage. He braked as late as he dared, overtaking Pierre into Turn 4 of the penultimate lap.

“ _ P1, Daniel, P1.” _

The Moët is no vintage, and drinking it lukewarm out of his sweat-drenched racing boot certainly does nothing to improve the taste. But he laps it up with vigor still, to the delight of his adoring home supporters and the thinly disguised disgust of his fellow podium-finishing drivers.

Daniel wipes off the remaining champagne clinging to the edges of his lips with the sleeve of his overall and turns to the other two drivers. Adami already had his fill, good sport, his race engineer. He pours the champagne into his boot to the brim again and shoves it in front of Charles’s face. “Fresh shoeys, Honey Badger special!”

Charles flinches, scoots away and uses Pierre as a human shield, shoving him towards Daniel. “Fuck, no!”

“Coward! Pierre, don’t let me down, buddy.”

Poor thing. Pierre almost looks like he had to go through five stages of grief before he accepts the shoe with great reluctance, the crowd growing ever more frenzied. “If I have to go to the hospital, I  _ am _ going to sue you.”

“Hey, it’s supposed to be good for your immune system.”

Pierre sighs and raises the boot to the crowd before he starts drinking.

Daniel turns to look at Charles. There it is. The glint in his eyes is acerbic, the adamant refusal to admit defeat manifesting in the way his lips purse and his jaw hardens. Fiercely competitive even in the smallest of things. Pierre has barely finished downing the content of Daniel’s racing boot when Charles yanks it from him, holding it out for Daniel to fill with a defiant frown.

* * *

“I will never do that again.”

Post-race press conference, check. Interviews at the media pen, check. Team photo is next on the list. Daniel nudges him on the shoulder as they arrive at the garage, the team already lined up and waiting. “Come on, Charles. Why deny yourself of one of life’s greatest pleasures.”

The way he contorts his face, nose scrunching and eyes narrowing in utter horror, is rather adorable. “ _ Never again,”  _ Charles repeats, every syllable stressed for emphasis.

“It’s an acquired taste.” Daniel allows himself a shoulder squeeze and a hand down Charles’s back. Straying just a little too far down, perhaps, lingering a couple of heartbeats too long, too. Charles doesn’t swat his hand away, shoots him an exasperated look instead.

_ R1C _ , one of the pit boards says, and  _ L3C _ on the other one. Whoever came up with the idea deserves a raise, or a pat on the back at the very least. Their trophies catch the afternoon sunlight, glimmering as they are placed on the tarmac on either side of the boards. The  _ Tricolore _ will be put up in Maranello. The  _ Gazzetta _ will bear his face on the frontpage.

Daniel can certainly get used to this. The taste of glory is too sweet, too bright, too addictive.

He feels fingers digging just due south of the small of his back when the team members are just starting to disperse after the photos are finished being taken. He turns to find Charles smiling at him with an eyebrow quirked.

Two and two is four.

* * *

Perhaps they shouldn’t make a habit of running the red lights before they all go out, tempting fate one too many times, and then again just for good measure. Surely karma will come for them, hellbent for retribution one day. Probably in the form of incriminating, potentially career-threatening tabloid headlines.

The walls of his driver’s room are cardboard thin, the locks are dodgy at best, it smells of a stale mixture of burnt rubber, sweat, and industrial cleaning products, yet Daniel doesn’t find it in himself to care. Not with the way Charles looks at him, his eyes as ever vast voids athirst to be filled. Not when the offer to have himself wrapped around Charles’s mouth seems to be very much on the table still. If they both indeed savor at the risk of being caught red-handed, they haven’t talked about it.

“You’re not going to celebrate with your best friend?”

Charles shrugs. “Maybe later. The team comes first.”

“ _ The team.  _ That’s what you call me now?”

“What?”

“ Nevermind. Well, it’s one-nil to me,” Daniel hums as Charles settles into his lap and latches himself onto Daniel’s neck. He leans back into the couch so they can fit together better, the tan leather cool against his back. “We have a strong package. We’ll be up there a lot, so you better get yourself used to drinking foot juice, babe.”

“Stop calling it that,” Charles hisses into his ear, not missing the chance to tease the lobe with a lap of tongue before moving on to his throat, open-mouthed kisses eager, ravenous. “I  _ will _ beat you in Bahrain.”

Such conviction. Perhaps they are right to hail him as a future champion, Charles certainly has the make up of one.

Not on Daniel’s watch.

He cradles Charles’s face and urges him up, capturing him in a bruising kiss with no trace of tenderness—it has no place in their books. It’s always been tongues sliding slick against one another, lips caught between teeth, sinking into the delicate flesh just on the verge of drawing blood. Hands roam to find stray slivers of skin, sneaking beneath hems of teamwear shirts—matching ones, this time, the famous red. Fingers move to fill the gaps between ribs, reaching for buttons and zippers, inching beyond waistbands.

“Yeah?” Daniel breathes out as they pull away for a pause. Fuck, he’s half-hard already only from Charles teasing him with mere fleeting touches. It’s almost pathetic, but still high on adrenaline from the win and the time crunch before they have to be at the debrief, he’s not quite in the mood for slow and steady. “Redemption for twenty-nineteen?”

Charles’s eyes widened a fraction before his expression sours. “ _ Don’t.” _

_ “ _ Right, sorry,” Daniel chuckles as he runs a thumb on Charles’s cheek, sheepish. “Touchy subject.” It’s not like it was a race to remember for Daniel either. “At least I helped you out a bit with the safety car, I’m taking credit for that one.”

“Sure, very kind of your engine to blow up so I can still be on the podium,” Charles counters with a saccharine-laced singsong tone.

Daniel can’t help but laugh. “You still haven’t thanked me for it yet,” he taunts.

Charles shrugs, a sly smile playing at his lips as he tilts his head to expose the line of his neck for Daniel to run a hot lap of tongue on. “I have not, you’re right,” he manages between a hum of agreement and a sigh Daniel can feel against his mouth.

“Well, that’s _ very _ rude of you.”

“I know, I know. How can I make it up to you?”

“I might have some ideas, yeah.”

“Mm, tell me,” Charles breathes out, tone falling just short of a demand. It gives way to a soft gasp when Daniel tugs at his hair, encouraging him to go on his knees.

It’s simply too easy, falling together like this. Convenient. Perhaps one day it’ll all lose its novelty, perhaps one day this will become perfunctory, perhaps one day they won’t stand exchanging even a few words of pleasantries.

Not today, not just yet.

* * *

Circuit de Catalunya is a track Daniel genuinely thinks he could drive around while being blindfolded, if it ever comes to that to spice up the competition. Reverse grid, sprinklers? Those are for rookies. He’s willing to bet wackier ideas have been presented before the FIA. Daniel should ask what they were taking and beg for some.

Stepping out of the Ferrari Roma to a brisk May morning for the first practice session takes him back to February. Topping the timesheets by seven tenths to Mercedes and a whole second to Red Bull and McLaren felt like a fever dream then. Sandbagging? Had to be.

Yet come the Spanish Grand Prix weekend, Ferrari are still leading the championship by a decent margin. Double podiums in Shanghai and Zandvoort, mere single-digit amount of points between cars number three and sixteen.

(Charles  _ did _ win Bahrain.  _ Didn’t  _ show up at his door after. It’s not like they’re  _ exclusive _ or anything.)

“Good morning,” he greets the team members as he enters the cafeteria to grab an espresso. Hell, maybe he’ll indulge himself and ask for a cappuccino. He didn’t use to drink coffee before, but the Italians truly take their coffee business seriously. The company car isn’t the only sweet bonus of being a Scuderia Ferrari driver. “So how are we feeling this weekend?”

The engineering meeting is scheduled to be in half an hour, and Charles is still nowhere to be seen. Maybe he should’ve woken him up earlier that morning before making his way to the track. Given their schedule, tardiness isn’t tolerated, but then again it’s  _ Charles. _ He did seem quite jetlagged when Daniel saw him yesterday, having just hopped off a plane from NYC and having to suffer through the press conference and all the interviews. The perks or woes of being an Armani ambassador.

“Looking pretty good. The new chassis package is in.”

“Yeah? Has Mattia said who’s gonna get it first?”

“We’ll find out in a few. Pretty sure it hasn’t been decided yet.”

Charles does make it in time, but just barely, looking paler and a little too disheveled for his usual standard. He immediately starts fidgeting with his nails. Charles looks younger than Daniel remembers, almost  _ too _ young _ ,  _ a child lost in a room full of grownups who shall decide his fate. In a way it is a fair assessment. The pressure put on his shoulders must be enough to push lesser souls to their breaking points. A life abundant with heartbreaks, the burden of being named the promised prince. The smile he gives Daniel as he puts his headphones on is hollow, the stark lighting not at all helping his cause.

Daniel sees an opening, and strikes.

Pushing for the new upgrade package to go his way took less string-pulling than he anticipated, and it was very much worth it. Daniel finishes all practice sessions on top—the long runs look promising, the qualifying simulations, too. For the first time in quite a while the car felt like it was meant to be  _ his _ to drive.

“ _ How’s the car Daniel?” _

_ “ _ Bloody awesome, mate. Very sharp into T4, no understeer. Balance feels good.”

“ _ Remember to avoid the kerbs on T7 and T8. Tyres?” _

_ “ _ Good for another flying lap.”

“ _ Copy. Recharge, and then we can go again.” _

He and Charles are too close in the standings to pull the championship leader card, so data became his arsenal. Throwing himself around the track for god knows how many laps during winter testing, hunching over telemetry late into the night with Adami might just be worth it after all. Monaco and Baku are coming up, he will strive to get every aerodynamic advantage he can get. And FIA’s volte-face on the engine modes ban is playing neatly into Ferrari’s hands as well.

_ “ _ _ Minus zero point one, middle sector.” _

Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, finish line.

“ _ Minus zero point two, P1. Provisional pole, good job!” _

The constellations are falling into place. Even at the expense of his teammate, his friend, his whatever-else. No hard feelings. It’s always going to be how the game is played: every driver for themself.

* * *

The chequered flag is waved.

“ _ P1, Daniel, P1.” _

A siren’s song wouldn’t even come close to sounding as sweet. Seb was right, Adami does deserve a hug. Top bloke.

* * *

One could exhaust every cliché to try to describe the Monaco Grand Prix weekend and they would still come up short: all the glitz and glamor is turned up to a level of excess that should be deemed reprehensible. And yet it is the very attraction: for a weekend, the municipality is set alight with events and parties at every corner, spilling over to the yachts docked on the marina. Twenty-four-seven. Take your pick of your favorite sin.

All of those can wait, Daniel has a race to win.

Friday sees the practice sessions being kickstarted with two red flags. Drivers pushing to the very limits, always just on the cusp of kissing the barriers around the two-plus miles of Circuit de Monte-Carlo. The car feels good—Daniel finishes FP2 just behind his teammate. He isn’t too bothered, he’ll beat Charles where it counts.

First, some events to attend: hands to shake, people to woo, sponsors to appease.

“Wait, you’re not doing the Amber Lounge show?”

“No,” Daniel says as he shrugs his race suit off his shoulders as they arrive at the motorhome, pulling it down to the waist. No time to change just yet, they’re on a tight schedule. “We all know you look better in suits than I do. I’ll get to suck some other sponsor’s dick instead.”

He is rewarded with a startled gasp and a hearty laugh from Charles, grinning as he quips back, “Lucky them.”

“Yeah? Jealous?”

Charles dismisses him with a quirk of his lips and a wave of hand, stepping closer into his space just as they arrive at the meeting room for the debrief, trapping Daniel against the door. The engineers are still elsewhere crunching numbers. The warm breath caressing the shell of Daniel’s ear is enough to make his gooseflesh rise.

“I’m still your favorite, no?” 

“Maybe if you let me win on Sunday.”

“No fucking chance.” The innocent team members are but a wall away and due to arrive anytime now, but he’s always had a suspicion Charles likes the thrill. Of course he does. And maybe Daniel does too, should he care to admit. He has to stop himself from chasing the touch when Charles withdraws his thumb from his lips. “You want to bet?”

* * *

Daniel always finds it easier to live with and rectify his own fuck ups. Apologize, keep a neutral countenance with just the right hint of remorse, recite PR-approved lines at the media pen diligently. Rinse and repeat as necessary, then dive back to work. Analyze onboards, dissect telemetry, train with Michael until every fiber of his muscles screams in agony.

It’s the sense of helplessness when being clipped of one’s own wings that feels like a fatal shot—mistakes by the team, mechanical failures, you name it, he’s gone through it.

Twenty-sixteen has been redeemed in twenty-eighteen, but once you’ve been burned, just the very impression of a fire will make you flinch, still. Especially so when there’s every possibility that come December, he may look back to this race and be plagued with what-ifs. Sure, the season is long and  _ anything can happen in grand prix racing _ . Capitalizing every opportunity that comes is essential for a fighting chance, especially considering who Daniel is up against.

He drove the lap of his life to clinch pole, a new lap record around the streets of Monte-Carlo by four tenths. Nailed on, flawless—Karun said so verbatim on the Skypad. Got off the line on Sunday well, too. Charles haunted his rearview mirror like a bloodhound throughout the race, but it really was his to lose. Then someone pushed too close to the edge and smashed into the barrier—he can’t remember or even care to know who it was. And Daniel’s race came undone.

The safety car was deployed just as he passed the pit entry. Demanding to hold Charles off for another lap so he could pit first and maintain track position was a futile attempt. Of course the hometown hero was right where he needed to be. Add insult to injury on top of bad luck: the pit crew just  _ had _ to fuck up his stop. Five point three seconds might as well have been forever.

“ _ P3, Daniel, P3. Charles P1” _

At least he still gets to taste the bubbly. He may drink himself sick afterwards, toasting to missed opportunities.

Charles just  _ had _ to get back on his words and initiate a shoey. It’s a little too endearing for Daniel to be a killjoy and refuse. It’s Charles’s maiden home win after all—a season of firsts for them. When the adrenaline from the race wears off, maybe he will find it in him to be genuinely happy for Charles. Lewis just shakes his head in disbelief as they refill their boots, intertwining their arms before they drink in unison to the roar of the fans. Allegiances be damned, everyone in the crowd is loving the show.

“Whatever happened to  _ I will never do a shoey ever again,  _ huh?”

Charles laughs, too giddy, almost tripping over his own overalls as they make their way into the garage for the team photo after they’ve completed their rounds of interviews. “I changed my mind. You’ll come to the party tonight, no?”

“Which party?” 

“Amber Lounge gala. I’ll put you as my plus one.”

Daniel finds he’d much rather sleep the night off. The thought alone makes him feel geriatric. “Sounds fun,” he remarks dryly, knowing well it’ll be another round of pageantry. He wonders why Ferrari doesn’t just make him attend.  _ Plus one,  _ righty-o. “Sure, I’m keen. I’ll swing by.”

“Oh it’s going to be  _ very  _ exciting,” Charles says with a tone that signifies that it will be anything but. “Pick me up at seven?”

“What, I’m playing chauffeur too now?”

“ _I_ _won_ ,” Charles says with flourish, as if it settled the argument. “Wear your best suit—you have one, no?”

Daniel doesn’t often feel out of place, being  _ who _ he is—he has made his rounds of greetings and pleasantries, making sure to flash his thousand-watt smile a generous amount, always his sword and shield of choice. Scrubbing the acrid taste of being denied a victory off his mouth will require more than unpronounceable canapés, pleasant conversations, and the too-sweet mocktail he’s having. The collar of his shirt digs into the skin of his neck and his tie is crooked. Trying to straighten it up only makes it worse, so he’s given up.

Daniel turns to look at Charles when he approaches, declining the flute of champagne he’s offering with a wave of a hand. “I’m driving, remember?”

Charles shrugs, downing both flutes in quick succession.

“Whoa there, chill, mate.” Charles might staunchly deny it every chance he gets, but Daniel knows for a fact how much of a lightweight he actually is. “Are you even allowed to drink during the season?”

“It’s champagne, I’m allowed. Some mediocre stuff, but still champagne,” Charles says smacking his lips, frowning. “The podium one was better.”

“You sure it’s not just because you were drinking it from my boot?” Daniel nudges Charles’s elbow. “Nah I think they did shell out on some nice one, yeah. Monaco special. Best tasting so far.”

“I still have some at home. If you want.”

Daniel doesn’t need to read between the lines. They’ve never been to each other’s Monaco apartment—it’s a line in the sand they’ve drawn, a breach of too personal a territory, should they cross it. Home may be ten thousand miles away, but Monaco is the closest Daniel has to a permanent residence. It counts. But what are they supposed to do instead, book a hotel room? “Yeah? Care to share? I can’t spend the entire night completely dry.”

“Do you think they’ll notice if we make our escape now?”

They are tucked away in the corner of the room and the lighting is dim enough that they can only see impressions of each other, but Charles’s reaching for the key of the 488 Pista in the pocket of his trousers, making sure to take his time to sink his fingers into the flesh of his thigh, is a bit much should anyone spot them. Damn him. Daniel is supposed to still be bitter about how the race unfolded. He still owes Charles one, so he’ll honor the bet. See where it takes him.

* * *

They arrive at Charles’s in fifteen minutes flat. It’s less euphoria and chaos, more subdued anticipation when they loosen their ties and kick off their shoes. Daniel takes in the space as he sinks into the living room sofa. 

Compared to his, Charles’s place looks much more lived in. A book of etudes lie atop the keys of the sleek white piano. His helmet collection is displayed on a cabinet right across. Daniel recognizes his own, Marcus’s from 2018, Alonso’s. And at the very top, encased in glass like a crowning jewel, one with Schwarz-Rot-Gold against white. The trophies on the cabinet right next to it gleam under the warmth of the light fixture illuminating the space. Charles may need a new one soon—the Monaco trophy sits lonesome on the coffee table in front of Daniel.

Daniel is jolted to a shock by the contact of something ice cold against his cheek, the yelp he lets out undignified. Charles’s laughter spreads across the room from behind him as he wipes the lingering moisture from the bottle pressed against his face.

“As promised,” Charles says, circling an arm around Daniel’s neck, pressing their cheeks close. He takes a sip from the bottle. “It has gone flat.”

He hands Daniel the bottle then rounds the sofa, plopping himself next to him.

“God that was so  _ boring _ . We should’ve been celebrating!”

“Everyone wants a piece of the race winner. Speaking from experience here. But hey, we can still celebrate,” Daniel tries, an eyebrow raised.

He’s not sure if he’s really quite up to it still, but maybe this is a way to take his mind off the race. The sound of the failing wheel guns and the many excruciating seconds before the pit crew signals for him to go is still much too fresh in his memory. The number one etched in gold on the neck of the bottle is mocking him. He pushes the thought to the back of his mind.

Daniel takes a tentative sip out of the bottle before handing it back to Charles. It really has gone flat. Still quite decent. The hand on his thigh feels warm through the fabric of the dress trousers. It travels higher still, and who is he to stop Charles?

“Well, this is certainly one way to do it,” Daniel teases when Charles starts undoing his belt.

“Shut up. Do you want to or not?”

“Sorry. Yeah, god yeah, of course, go ahead.”  _ Please. _

It’s much less complicated just to follow Charles’s whims most of the time than to try to understand him at all. Daniel has learned this quite some time ago, but Charles’s mind continues to be a riddle he can’t solve. They get along fine, work well together too, and he thinks he has a measure of him when they are edging each other for advantage, battling wheel to wheel. But there’s a persistent question mark in the back of Daniel’s mind whenever they find themselves falling together like this. 

Sure, they are both doing it for themselves for the most part. But Charles seems to be doing this to wrest the beast in him to submission, to seal cracks and fractures within himself lest the void of the vacuum robs every cubic of air out of him. Not simply to fulfill carnal pleasures with someone he trusts to let off some steam.

Daniel’s mind blanks when Charles takes him all the way in. Christ, he really is rather good.

“They should bring back the bottle cam, you know? Let the fans see what I’m seeing right now,” Daniel chuckles when he comes back to his senses, settling further back into the couch with a sigh, fingers digging into Charles’s shoulder. “Have you ever thought of doing that? Just, deepthroat the bottle on the podium, put on a bit of a show. It’ll be a laugh.”

The glare Charles gives him is sharp enough to cut and gut, but given their position, fuck, it’s mindblowingly  _ hot. _

“You talk so much sometimes,” Charles says after withdrawing, sitting back on his heels.

“I do, yeah. Can’t help it. Shouldn’t you be used to it by now? I don’t know, maybe you should put  _ my _mouth to better use, then.”

Charles blinks slowly. “You want me to do that?”

“Sure. Our bet, remember? You can make me do anything you like.”

“Oh?” Charles hums, nodding. “You’re right, I almost forgot.”

“Yeah, I am honoring the bet,” Daniel remarks, matter of fact. He pauses before adding, “Doesn’t matter  _ how _ , you still won. Nothing can take that away from you.” Nonchalant but very much toxin-laced. Maybe not the wisest move if he wants to avoid being kicked out of Charles’s apartment before they get to fuck, which would really be quite tragic.

Eyes flashing, Charles shifts and reaches behind him for the key to the Pista on the coffee table and throws it at Daniel. He winces in pain as it hits his collarbone. Charles stands up, folding his hands on his chest and gestures to the door with a snap of his head.

Daniel scrambles to his feet, puts his hands on either side of Charles’s forearms. The silk shirt feels much softer than his own. “I was just messing with you.” Being able to lie through his teeth is luckily one of Daniel’s skillset. “Sure you want to pass up on me? Come on.  _ Anything _ you want.”

Charles pauses. Head tilted, he gives him a once over with an unreadable expression. The thousand-yard stare returns, unflinching like that of a raven. A layer of darkness settles into his eyes. Then he smiles, languid, lopsided, tongue darting to wet his already swollen lips for good measure.

“Okay. I want to fuck you.”

Not many things can take him by surprise anymore, but Daniel is startled to an undignified mix of a choked gasp and a bark of laughter. He hopes Charles doesn’t catch the minuscule trace of nervousness bleeding into it. “All yours, baby,” he says against Charles’s lips after he pulls him back down to the couch for a kiss.

“But I want you to suck me off first.”

_ Christ. “ _ Sure, yeah. Gotta admit I’m a bit out of practice, though.”

“You can practice.” He picks up the Moët, glancing between Daniel and the bottle, swirling it. A conspiratory smile dangles at the corners of his lips. “It’s your idea, no?”

His mouth feels parched all of a sudden, robbed of any capability of coherent thoughts as the pressure deep in his gut mounts. Has Charles always been capable of this? Has the victory disclosed a side he hasn’t chosen to reveal until now?

“It isn’t empty,” he finally manages, barely keeping a semblance of composure. Realizes how dumb he sounds.

Eyebrows knitted, Charles snickers as he rises from his knees and climbs onto the couch, straddling Daniel, the bottle in hand. He watches as Charles takes a sloppy swig, the bubbly running down his jaw and dripping on their shirts. That close, Daniel can smell the scent of Charles’s aftershave and the sweetness of the alcohol.

Charles raises the bottle to his lips again, filling his mouth with the remaining content. Before Daniel can fully catch on, he finds himself being pressed against the back of the couch with his lips pried open by Charles’s own. Warm liquid fills his mouth and his reflexes scream for him to swallow, but he can’t respond soon enough to force all of it down his throat. He chokes on the champagne, the burning in his trachea amplified when he coughs it out, his body lurching like the kickback of a gun, a delicious shiver electrifying his nerves.

“There, problem solved.”

Fuck, Daniel is well and truly gone.

Charles doesn’t  _ actually  _ end up demanding him to follow through with the shenanigans. The now-empty bottle sits on the coffee table next to the trophy. Mementos of glory.

It could’ve been, should’ve been his.

In due time, Daniel will learn to let it go.

They opt instead to be reasonable and move to the bedroom. The looming feeling of breaching into a territory not to be trespassed returns for the briefest of moments before again giving way to lust when Daniel is bodily shoved onto the king sized.

The amount of bubbly they had is not nearly enough to cloud judgments or impair motor functions, only to wet their lips and lower inhibitions. Still, there is no finesse in the preparation—and it doesn’t need to be. Just the feeling of being stretched by Charles’s slick fingers is enough to engulf Daniel’s mind in wildfire, the promise of what’s still on the table making him tremble in anticipation.

“You okay?”

“Peachy. It’s just kinda been a while since the last time.”

“Really? Who was it with?”

Daniel laughs, breathless. Flashes of the encounter floods his mind. Being pressed against his own bed, the sweet taste of victory still clinging to his lips,  _ we’re both Monaco winners now _ . The contrast of his honey-smooth voice and his words of pure filth, stifling all his capacity for coherent thoughts. Being held down and brought close, so close, too close and then denied again and again until he completely came undone.

“Yeah nah, I don’t— _ oh fuck _ —kiss and tell.”

“You are no fun.” Charles purses his lips, makes sure to repeat the curling motion of his fingers that made Daniel swear, and heavens, this  _ can  _ be enough. He  _ can  _ come from just this, if he’s keen, if Charles would let him. As if.

It’s rather nice to think of himself as an offering for the victor. To be wanted as a reward. Glory was within his grasp before it was unceremoniously taken away from him. Isn’t it just another thing? To  _ be taken _ himself, too?

Daniel really should put a halt to his rampant thoughts. He blames it on what little alcohol there is in his system.

“I think I’m good now, yeah,” Daniel breathes out, sounding more wrecked than he thought he would be.

The serpentine smile on Charles’s lips after he gives him a quick peck on the clavicle carries a hint of mischief. Daniel can’t quite decide if he’s being generous or cruel when he buys his time by planting open-mouthed, sloppy kisses down his chest and stomach, lips lapping up contours of muscles, teeth scraping against skin.

Cruel, Daniel decides, when Charles wraps his mouth around him too briefly to be anything more than a tease, hot tongue flicking against the slit, making him jerk up to chase the touch. Charles really can’t help himself, can he. The fingers digging into Daniel’s thigh as Charles arranges him and lines them up err on the side of being painful, but it’s a delectable sort of pain.

“ _ God _ , fuck— _ fuck.” _

_ “ _ Oh, Daniel— _ putain.  _ You’re so—” 

It’s rather undignified, but it really has been a while, alright. And at least he doesn’t seem to be alone in being utterly overwhelmed as Charles pushes into him, easing with such care he sometimes asks Daniel  _ not  _ to afford him.

For a few heartbeats they pause, just adjusting to the onslaught of inputs to their nerve endings, synapses going almost haywire to keep up. Looking into Charles’s eyes, pupils dilated, bright and liquid, eyebrows knitted in concentration, almost feels like looking directly into the sun.

Daniel is glad for the reprieve from having to look at those eyes too long when Charles starts moving, eyes slamming shut as he tries to bite back a moan. They gradually pick up pace and find a rhythm, Daniel not letting Charles do all the work, urging him closer, deeper, meeting his thrusts halfway.

Fuck, how has he gone so long without? The feeling of being filled, being stretched out is making him ravenous with an all-consuming hunger,  _ more, more, more. _ Making him shake and sweat and tremble, delirious from a burning fever.

And oh, Charles learns the rope  _ fast. _ He puts his weight into the thrusts, explores his angles. Rolls his hips in a way that makes Daniel’s mind crackle with static and his toes curl, heels digging deeper into the muscles of Charles’s back. Trapped between them, rubbing against Charles’s taut stomach, already his dick feels full, so full.

But everytime he wrestles his eyes open, he can almost see the cogs turning in Charles’s head. Reviewing his own performance as if they were in an engineering meeting poring over data to try and extract the last hundreths of a second per lap. Daniel wonders how it must be to strive for perfection to a fault, to not allow even a fleeting moment for mistakes.

“Charles, just—stop thinking too much and just get on with it, yeah?” Daniel manages between his erratic breathing, dragging fingers and nails into the back of Charles’s neck.

Rhythm breaking, Charles comes back to himself, dazed eyes snapping into focus. “Yes, of course!” He almost sounds frantic.

“Go on,” Daniel grins. “Fuck me harder.”

Charles nods. Dives in for a messy, open-mouthed kiss—Daniel isn’t much into that  _ during _ , but he’ll indulge Charles. The glide of their tongues and the teeth sinking into his lips feel nice enough. His mind is too fogged up already, time slowing to molasses.

Noises spill from his throat too freely, too greedily with every snap of Charles’s hips, hitting his spot relentlessly, but Daniel doesn’t care one bit. The extent of his vocabulary: “ _ Fuck _ —yes Charles, fuck.”

He’s right there at the precipice. And Daniel doesn’t know why he’s compelled to ask Charles if he may reach and touch himself, but he did anyway.

“Let me.”

Charles wraps his hand around Daniel’s cock and works him. Grips just right, thumb caressing the glans, strokes in an almost measured precision born out of familiarity. Almost to a worrying degree, how easy this all seems, how well they know each other’s body. It’s a can of worms Daniel prefers not to open,  _ ever _ , but  _ fuck,  _ if it means it spells his undoing, then so be it. It doesn’t take much more for him to peak—Daniel is already aflame to the very edges of his reason. And when he does come, it feels as if he is split open like an atomic fission, his very core exposed.

When he comes back to himself, mind still a whiteout from the sheer force of his orgasm, Charles is smiling at him. Awe-filled, almost  _ pure _ in its open curiosity. Marvelling at how his body wields such power over Daniel, perhaps? Thinking still feels like too much of an effort, especially when the last remnants of the aftershocks still teases at his nerves like a pleasant hum of white noise.

Daniel is therefore confused when Charles withdraws, the loss of contact leaving a hollow he isn’t expecting to feel. “You can continue,” he whispers, throat still hoarse. He is overwhelmed, sensitive, but Daniel knows he can take it. Instead, Charles takes the condom off, tosses it aside with little care. Then, still kneeled between Daniel, wraps a hand around himself.

It’s such a mesmerizing sight, one Daniel can’t tear his eyes from even if he tried. The way Charles’s breath staccatoed when he picks up pace, finds rhythm, flushed red all the way to his chest. The way his hair is matted to his forehead but sticks out on its ends. The way his mouth opens and closes as he shivers, kiss-branded bright lips caught between teeth, eyelashes fluttering like the wings of a butterfly.

It doesn’t take long until Charles comes with a splintering cry. His face contorts prettily as he rests his head on Daniel’s knee to anchor him through the waves. The fingers of his other hand sink deep into Daniel’s thigh, digging so hard he almost jolts on reflex from the blooming pain. It better leave a mark. Not a bad souvenir.

The silence between them is charged. Through the haze of bliss they look at each other.

Then  _ oh, _ Charles takes a swipe from the mess on Daniel’s stomach with his fingers, bringing them to his mouth, suckling each of them.  _ Obscene  _ is not strong enough a word, but it’s the only one Daniel’s short-circuiting brain comes up with. When he’s finished lapping it up, Charles looks at him with a contemplative gaze.

“What? What are you thinking?” There is still some residuum shining on his cupid’s bow that Daniel finds he wants to lick off.

“Hm, tastes better than the shoey.”

“ _ Jesus Christ.” _

Charles purses his mouth, a deviant smirk dangling at the corner of his lips. “Can I come on your face next time?”

His words almost make Daniel think he can go again right away.

* * *

The water scalds his skin, turning it raw and flushed red, but Daniel persists. He can feel it unknotting the kinks on his muscles, soothing his joints, easing the blooming red bruises. He feels sore in muscles and tendons he didn’t know he has, from the race, from the sex, but it is not an unpleasant soreness.

The remaining bitterness from the race still clings to the edges of his papillae, but it almost feels like distant memory.

“So? Did I measure up?” Charles asks when Daniel steps out of the shower. His expression is a little too earnest for it to simply be a joke.

Daniel dries his hair with the towel Charles tossed at him. “It’s not a competition, Charles.”

“But did I?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re alright.”

“ _ Alright?” _ Charles almost looks offended.

“Let’s do it more often, there’s room for improvement.” He might be pushing his luck here. “I’m kidding, for fuck’s sake. You were fucking good. We really should do this more often.”

Charles hums, curling a catlike smile as he stretches, equally feline in the way his back curves into a smooth arc, seemingly content with receiving validation. As if seeing him thrash and jackknife and be driven halfway to delirium isn’t satisfying enough an indication.

“Sure, why not.” Charles gives Daniel’s waist a squeeze as he passes him on the way to the en suite, right where a bruise is forming. “But I still prefer it if you fuck me. I know what I like best.”

Charles does indeed. And he sure is hellbent to take and take, not a single moment of hesitation. On track. In bed. There’s something grim in the fact that Daniel knows he can’t bring himself to resent Charles for it.

Charles emerges from the shower when Daniel is just about finished getting dressed again, shirt barely buttoned as he puts his Patek Nautilus back on his wrist.

“You’re not staying?”

Daniel certainly isn’t expecting that. “You want me to stay? I snore, you know.”

Charles shrugs. Then without a word he opens his wardrobe and picks out two t-shirts and sweatpants at random. He hands a set to Daniel.

Gucci is emblazoned on the t-shirt. A little worn on the neck, still a Gucci. Daniel shakes his head softly and starts changing. It fits much too tight for his liking.

Daniel has found a comfortable position on his side, facing away from Charles with his arm folded under his head. Sleep is just about to claim him. His head is quieter than usual, a calm lake instead of whitewater. Then,

“Is it Seb? Have you ever—?”

There is something in Charles’s tone Daniel chooses not to question or address.

He really wants to ask. Wants to hear it from the horse’s mouth, wants to make Charles spell out whatever it is between them. If there is anything between them. Should Charles be willing to confide in him, the knowledge will complicate things, for sure, and Daniel has too many headaches to tend to already. Ignorance truly is bliss.

“Go to sleep, Charles, or I swear I’ll kick you out of your own fucking apartment.”

* * *

It’s the witching hour the next day when his phone rings.  _ Three. Fucking. A. M. _ Daniel really should make a habit of putting his phone on  _ Do Not Disturb _ . He couldn’t care less if it’s the Pope himself calling, he needs his eight hours. “What is it, Charles?”

“Please, I  _ need _ to know.”

A vision of himself not-so-accidentally taking Charles out in the next race may have flashed in Daniel’s mind. Well fucking done Baku. If it weren’t for the fact that they are on course for a very competitive year, he might as well make it a tradition.

“Christ, you’re so fucking insufferable.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

Daniel turns over and groans into his pillow before tapping end call. Before Charles can ring him again, he sends a text. _ Wake me up at 3 again and I’ll block your number. _

Daniel hesitates before sending another one that simply says  _ Jenson. _

(Lying by omission still counts as deception, but  _ seven years ago _ when he and Sebastian were teammates surely counts as ancient history now. Anything to placate the gathering storm.)

* * *

There is no elation, no euphoria, no ecstasy. Only exhaustion drenching all the way to his bone marrow, arresting every single nerve ending in his body with a dull ache. Daniel takes off his gloves, wincing as the fabric peels off from where blisters form. He looks at his angry red palms, branded by the steering wheel, fingers wrinkled by the rainwater seeping through. Even as he reattaches the wheel, he can still feel the ghost of the brake balance knob and gear levers against the pads of his fingers.

For what felt like half an eternity he simply watches as Charles leaps from his car and makes his way to the team members at parc fermé, embracing each one of them, a flurry of red stark against the seemingly endless grey. Droplets of rain start to fall from the sky again. It wouldn’t be amiss if Daniel feels anger or resentment rising within him, but really, everything is trumped by the all-consuming fatigue.

All weekend long the very finest of English weather hangs over Silverstone, every single practice and qualifying session were done on wet tyres and intermediates. Starting second to Lewis was a decent place to be. Being punted off at the first lap wasn’t exactly in the plan, but after recovering from dropping down to eleventh, a win was still very much on the cards. Leave it to the pit crew to deny him yet again when the memory of Monaco is still all too fresh.

It’s easy to fall into the poisonous thoughts of conspiracy theories. That your team’s allegiance is not yours, that they don’t have your best interests in mind. Daniel banishes the seed crystal before it grows and evolves into a malignant tumor, and accepts Charles’s offer for a hug.  _ Perfectly executed gamble for slicks delivers win for Leclerc,  _ journalists and armchair experts alike will write.

The two of them and Mercedes have been trading blows all season long, only ever a race win away from one other in the standings, the top four shuffling with every race week. Every setback spells doom, every mistake a passing of a sentence.

Fifty-two laps felt like a couple hundred.

Some drivers will never get to experience standing on the podium at all, but Daniel would rather be elsewhere. He’d pay whatever fine for breaking the podium protocol might be if only it didn’t make him look like such a sore loser. Really he is just oh so weary. The cheerful beat of the Monégasque anthem grates like nails against a chalkboard. Daniel ignores the disappointed roar from the crowd when he steps off the podium with neither racing boots filled with champagne. He can lie again to Natalie and Lawrence when they interview him, tell them he forgot.

Daniel desperately needs to be alone. A long, deep sleep would be nice, even a power nap would do just fine. Count on his lucky star that his dear race winner teammate decides to drop by his driver’s room instead of opting to be a nuisance for someone else.  _ Go and help Gasly lick his wounds, damn it. _

_ “ _ Four-three to me,” Charles announces his arrival, too infuriatingly upbeat.

The audacity of him, bringing the winner’s trophy along. Not cradled close to his chest but dangling from his fingertips as if it were worth little.

“I’ll make it even soon enough,” Daniel counters with no bite as Charles backs him up against the massage table, pushing them flush together. Any other time, the warmth of Charles’s hands on his hip and chest would feel nice. “Congratulations,” Daniel says with a too-wide saccharine smile.

Charles tilts his head, frowns. He _ can _ be surprisingly perceptive, usually at the least ideal of times. Daniel disentangles himself, drapes a towel over his face as he collapses onto the bench.

“Are you okay?”

“What do you think?” He hopes the edge in his tone carries through even when he is mumbling his words through the towel draped over his face. “Take a guess. Option A: I am tired. Option B: I am fucking tired  _ and _ pissed off.”

Daniel can picture Charles’s flinching and frown. “Did I— _ do _ something?”

_ Only divebombing into Pérez  _ again  _ and fucking my race up and not getting as much as an investigation from race control.  _ First lap incident. Yeah, right. Talk about stewarding consistency.

“Nah,” Daniel shrugs. “I’m just—so,  _ so _ knackered from the race.”

He feels cold, clammy fingers against the exposed skin of his shoulder. “Daniel—”

“Look, there’s nothing you can do,” he sighs, shrugging off Charles’s hand as he sits back up, pushing it away a little too forcefully. “Sorry, Charles, but I need to be alone.”

Charles backs away, gaze ossifying. “Wow, you’re in a bad mood. Can’t even pretend to be happy for me?”

Patience is not even close to the top half of the list of Daniel’s virtues. “Was the race really so long you fucked your memory up?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Nevermind, then. Look, mate, would you please just fucking leave? I really like your face, you know. Would be a shame if I break it.”

It’s ridiculously childish. Daniel can’t bring himself to care. The sound of the door slamming makes his heart jump, but it’s a welcome relief. He presses his eyes shut, willing the foul taste of anger and disappointment in his mouth away. Surely they can and will sort it out later when emotions and exhaustion cease from holding control of the rein.

* * *

Hungary was one to forget. Finishing fifth and seventh with the best car on the grid is not exactly something one would call respectable, minor gearbox issues, questionable strategies, and a penalty for unsafe release notwithstanding. He wishes he could just hop on the first flight to Perth from Budapest, skip the detour to Maranello for the mid-season review and factory visit.

Another twenty plus hours, MXP to DXB to PER. The summer break is indeed a much needed pause. No hopes for any escapades like Vegas this time, and they are better for it. Like many drugs and as many vices, they really are only good for each other in strictly controlled doses. It should be something they knew the very second their lives intersected, the very first time they fell together.

Alas.

* * *

Dubbed the Temple of Speed and living up to its name, Monza will see a driver jamming their right foot all the way into the floor for the majority of the lap. A place of worship for the tifosi, almost; a victory there so coveted, so sacred to the drivers donning the red.

Charles happens to have won in his first year with Ferrari.

Daniel remembers that race with fondness, of course—it’s where it all started for them. The details are but a blur of slurred conversations and impressions of touches now, and trying to remember them is akin to trying to recall a dream just as you wake up—like sand, hold on and grasp harder and more will slip right through your fingers. 

It was  _ good.  _ That he knows for sure. Easy. Convenient. The teammate factor is making the odds sway increasingly against their chances of keeping their friendship from going supernova and collapsing into a black hole, however.

But the summer break has done them some good. They went into Spa having signed a peace treaty of sorts, settling back into their routine amicable enough. Spa should be no battleground.

* * *

The clock counts down to zero just ten seconds after Daniel crosses the start-finish line for his final flying lap.  _ Delta, delta,  _ Adami barks in his ears,  _ maintain five second delta. _ It’s a delicate dance, trying to balance out being in the window for a slipstream and trying to make it to the line. The twenty-nineteen kerfuffle comes to mind, how his then-team toed the line to hold position. It paid off then for him and Nico, but now it’s all in Daniel’s hands. He can see Charles in his rearview mirror, rounding the Lesmo just as he approaches the Ascari chicane. Just where he needs to be for Daniel to give him a tow as the team orders.

Make your own luck, shape your own destiny.

Purple, purple, Parabolica, purple.

“ _ P1, provisional pole.” _

Behind him, Daniel sees a kick of dust. Charles going wide.

“ _ P1, Daniel, P1.” _

Pole position and front row lockout, check and check. A good shift at the office. He steps out of his cockpit and climbs on top of his SF21 to a roar so loud even through his in-ear monitors, arms spread,  _ are you not entertained? _

Daniel tries to keep himself from savoring too much in the glory. It’s only Saturday, afterall, wins and points are won and lost tomorrow. No one can deny the magnetism of the tifosi, however, their passion so captivating a display, electrifying.

For the moment, their allegiance is his.

They too will be the first to make him swim with the fishes, should he fall short of exceeding expectations. Nothing short of a miracle, the fact that he’s yet to fall. Maybe he should try flying closer still, just to see if he ever will.

* * *

The higher the climb, the higher the zenith, the higher the fall.

Off the line, the Ferraris are immediately in a different postcode, just as they have been all weekend, blurs of scarlet as soon as the five lights blink off. A fairly uneventful first stint for Daniel and Charles—the pit stops are executed well, the pace is looking strong, the tyre degradation is just as simulated and predicted. Then one of the Alpines spins off near Parabolica. Bernd Mayländer’s time to shine.

Daniel keeps track position after the double stack, backs the pack off for the restart. Only Ascari and Parabolica to go, then it’s green flag once again. Foot down.

And then he feels it, subtle as a shift of air pressure. The feeling of being forced into a mistake, of being hunted, atavistic survival instincts kicking into gear. Daniel brakes a fraction too hard and locks up. A space, an opening. Charles will attack. And when he primes himself for the kill, it’s as if a switch is turned. Daniel is very much aware of how he always has this tendency of becoming a different kind of aggressive when he commits to strike. Charles leaves no space unfilled, no gap unexploited.

It happens faster than the space between heartbeats. The shards of carbon fiber flying through the air like blood spraying from an exit wound of a gunshot. A cloud of dust from the gravel trap overwhelms Daniel’s vision, a whiteout not unlike being in a blizzard. He curtails his breathing, braces for impact.

Daniel’s mangled car skids and meets the tyre wall, the dissipation of kinetic energy knocking the air out of his lungs. When Adami checks in on him, he wants little else but to unload all the profanities in his vocabulary until he exhausts the very last word. Instead, he laughs, stopping only when he feels soreness on his ribcage.

* * *

“Daniel, that was a disappointing race for both of you. Can you tell us what happened at the restart?”

_ Sure, Will. Charles fucking Leclerc happened. Remember Silverstone? Portimão? Bahrain and Sakhir last year? Styria? Does it jog your memory?  _ He can feel Silvia’s gaze piercing right through him.

“I’m not quite sure. We still have to review it ourselves. I went for it once it went green, locked up a bit into the corner. Charles went for a gap that closed up quick. It happened,” Daniel snaps his fingers, “like that, and well, fine margins.”

He answers a few more questions before moving on to Sky. Before Rachel begins, he catches the tail end of Charles’s answer.

“—and to be honest, I think it’s just a racing incident. No one was in the wrong.”

_ In which fucking alternate universe? _

Teammates colliding will always be quite a complication to handle. Once is down to luck or lack thereof, twice is a tragic coincidence, thrice an infuriating pattern. What was he expecting after such an aggressive move? That Daniel will yield? Daniel is not Sebastian—there’s never any hope for a Bahrain twenty-twenty scenario. It’s always going to be Styria with a healthy sprinkle of Baku twenty-eighteen. And as expected, so it all unraveled.

When he finds out at the debrief that Charles used Mode 5 for the restart, Daniel sees red. His head snaps up from the telemetry screen to look at Charles like a crack of whip, jaw clenching in barely concealed fury. The grip on the microphone threatens to snap it off from the headset. The audacity of him looking at Daniel wide-eyed as if surprised, as if it was nothing but a trivial mistake to be swept under the rug. He counts down from ten, lest he completely lose his temper.

“And what does Charles have to say about that?” Daniel says through gritted teeth, putting as much venom into his words without raising his tone, not backing away from the stare down.

“We’re allowed to race, so we raced,” Charles counters, still looking and sounding bewildered. “You locked up into the corner, I attacked the outside line.”

“Not with the _ quali engine mode _ at restart,” Daniel nearly snarls. In his peripheral vision he can see Adami looking at him with concern. “You had the speed and traction advantage through Curva Grande anyway, so was that  _ really  _ necessary?”

“My MGU-K was not recharging properly, I didn’t have enough power off the line. I needed to try  _ something _ .”

“ _ That’s  _ your excuse? Did Xavi give you permission to do that?” Daniel glances at Adami who is raising his hand, gesturing for Daniel to be mindful of his tone. Daniel takes a deep breath. “It was nonexistent and you know it, we’ve agreed to give each other space.”

“Daniel, Charles,  _ enough. _ This is not very productive. We will now wrap this up and we will continue the discussion in Maranello.”

_ He’s _ actually _ going to get away with this. Again. _ Daniel can’t bring himself to be surprised. And they are both summoned to the headmaster’s office for a slap on the wrist, too, what fun.

* * *

Sometimes Daniel wishes hotel rooms with connecting doors are never invented. Charles knocks—two quick raps, a pause, one more, the rhythm too familiar now even if it’s been a while since their last rendezvous. He wants to ignore him, pretend he’s already asleep maybe, but Daniel won’t risk him bringing a crowbar to pry the door open. Seems like something he would do. There is no ignoring Charles, he will never stand for it.

“What?” Daniel hollers, not moving from his lying position, flicking through channels with his head pillowed on his arm. He’s seen his own face and Charles’s on two different news programs already, cutting to the replay of their crash.

He can hear the door swinging open and the soft pad of Charles’s steps against the carpet. “Can I come in?”

“Kinda too late to ask now, you’re already in my room.” He doesn’t spare him a glance just yet. “What do you want?”

Daniel feels a dip on the mattress and a rustling just beside his folded arm. “I fucked up, Daniel. I want to apologize.”

“Ah, finally coming to your senses.” Daniel sighs, turning the television off and tossing the remote control without care, finally looking up at Charles. He has his legs folded to his chest, drowning in the hoodie he is wearing—Daniel’s merch he gave him as a joke some time ago. He wonders if it’s a deliberate choice. “That wasn’t racing, Charles. It’s a deathwish, that’s what it is. You can’t just keep doing that.”

“I just—want to win so bad.”

“ _ You just want to win so bad. _ Cry me a fucking river, mate. Don’t we all? I know we are each other’s benchmark, and I want to beat you as much as you want to beat me. But there’s calculated risk and there’s being selfish and reckless.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, barely audible. “I’m sorry.”

There’s something lurking just beneath the surface of the dark waters of Charles’s expression. The halting air of uncertainty, wanting to say something but not finding the words to do so. Daniel waits.

Like diving headfirst into battles not to be picked, Charles is quick to action. Or rather, bad decisions. His movement is so sudden Daniel barely has time to process what he is meaning to do. He has Daniel pinned under him, hands heading they’re not supposed to be. Daniel just manages to catch Charles’s wrists before he can pull his basketball shorts off, yanking it away.

“ _ What are you doing?” _

Charles is frozen, wide eyed. “I thought, maybe—I mean, I fucked up, so...” he trails off. Doesn’t continue, doesn’t need to.

“Jesus Christ. You don’t  _ get it _ , do you.”

“But you want. Come on, Daniel, please, I need—”

There is something heartbreaking in the hitch in his pleading tone. Daniel is having none of it.

“Maybe  _ you  _ want to,  _ you _ need to. And I won’t indulge you. You don’t get to have it your way every single time, Charles. You can’t just jostle me around on track then waltz in for sex and think that it will magically fix everything, because tragically it won’t and never will.”

Charles takes rejection so personally. It can’t be healthy. The way he looks as if Daniel has slapped him across the face with his words is loaded with layers of history he’d rather not peel off now. Daniel is the least qualified person to take apart and carbon date his trauma—he doesn’t even quite have handle of his own, for fuck’s sake. He lets go of Charles’s wrist, sighing as he pries himself off him and moves to sit up.

“Look, mate. Can’t we not act like kids and, I don’t know, actually  _ talk?” _ Heavens, Daniel is tired, so tired. “Sounds kinda crazy, I know, but we should give it a shot, yeah?”

Charles pauses. Hesitates before nodding, dragging himself back to his prior position sitting beside Daniel.

The stillness of the room is too tense for Daniel’s liking. “Hey, if you still want us to fuck after, I’m game,” he jokes, yanking the aglets of Charles’s hoodie.

Charles retaliates by giving him a rather vicious kick on the shin.

“ _ Ow!” _

* * *

The drive from Milan is fairly uneventful. The air temperature gauge on the dashboard of the F8 Tributo indicates thirteen degrees C, uncharacteristically crisp for a September morning in Maranello, the exhaust gas from the V8 leaving a cloud of condensation behind them. Daniel waves to the security personnel that lets them into the factory complex as he drives past.

“This feels like—a bad déjà vu,” Charles sighs, tucking into his thermos, flinching when the tea inside scalds his tongue.

Daniel quirks a brow as he kills the ignition.

“Brazil 2019.”

“Shit, yeah.” _ Did you go down on your knees to apologize too, _ Daniel doesn’t ask.

It does feel like they were about to appear before court for a sentencing instead of a race review and engineering debrief. They will put on a mask of contrition and summon every variant of apologies that doesn’t sound too pathetic from their arsenal of PR-approved lines. Maybe if they put enough effort it will be believable. The media roundtable scheduled after lunch will be just as ruthless and Daniel isn’t too keen on giving the press any more soundbites that can be twisted and turned to their liking.

“Charles?”

“Hm?”

“The hoodie—you’re wearing it on purpose, aren’t you?”

Charles shrugs, running his fingers over the  _ 3 RIC _ design on the chest. “Of course. It shows that we’re still friends, no?” He pauses, the tip of his ears taking a darker hue. “Are we?”

Daniel unbuckles his seatbelt, reaches over to give Charles pats on the cheek and a squeeze on his shoulder. “Yeah nah, never liked you in the first place, mate.”

Charles recovers quickly, shrugging off Daniel’s hand and rolling his eyes. “You liked me just fine last night.”

Daniel can’t help but laugh. Well, he is never one to hold too many grudges anyway. What happens on track shall stay there. Forgiving is one thing, forgetting another, but perhaps they will manage just fine for now. For their own sake and for the team’s.

* * *

How does a team throw away a comfortable one-two after having led every session throughout the weekend and a front row lockout as well? Ask the Scuderia.

“ _ P6, Daniel, P6. Charles P5.” _

Daniel would prefer it to be personal. Name carved on a bullet sort of personal, being relegated to the role of a wingman sort of personal. In the art of war, however, it’s not the one with your name on it, it’s the one addressed  _ to whom it may concern _ one needs to watch out for—and they happen to be friendly fires from his own team. He wonders why Ferrari is so adamant on shooting themselves in the foot sometimes. Throwing one Hail Mary pass after another just to see if anything lands is not a viable strategy, surely.

No use for colorful languages nor finger-pointing, though. “Ah, boys. That was a tough one,” he says on the team radio instead, knowing well frustration rings clear in his tone. He tugs off his balaclava, smiling bitterly when Charles approaches, giving him a pat in the back.

“ _ How _ did we fuck that up?” Charles sighs. His eyes are vacant, his face drained from color and vigor.

Daniel shrugs as he runs his fingers through his curls to bring it back into a semblance of order, failing to do so. Further up the parc fermé, the Mercedes team is celebrating their one-two finish. The grand firework display, red and green and blue against the Singapore skyline, offers an omen and no spectacle. The gap is down to a race win’s distance. He wonders what will be on the  _ Gazzetta _ tomorrow.

“So frustrating, yeah. I still had enough tyres to go all the way.”

“Me too, mate! And double stacking us, not split strategy?” Charles taps the side of his head with the tip of his index finger.

Monza aside, it can’t be smooth sailing all the time, for sure. But the mishaps at Hungaroring, Nürburgring, and Spa are only three among the others Daniel can’t remember from the top of his head. Of all the things the team could choose to be semi-consistent at, it had to be questionable strategy calls. Their sole saving grace is how good their package has been all year, but even then they are on thin ice as Mercedes inches too close for comfort.

Daniel goes through the media duties on autopilot, tries to keep a neutral, matter-of-fact tone, PR 101. It’s harder than he thought when Ziggo is so keen on provoking him into a slip up, but he ends up leaving the media pen relatively unscathed. At least Silvia’s approving nod and tight-lipped smile say so.

He finds Charles waiting for him by the garage. “Want to get shitfaced?”

“So what, like two beers for you?”

“Fuck you.”

Daniel grins. A low hanging fruit, there. “Oh, _ gladly _ .”

* * *

The stretch of the cityscape is quite a picturesque sight, something easily taken for granted. The sprawling streets, the arteries and veins of the metropolis, look relatively barren as the traffic at a quarter past midnight has slowed to a sparse flow. From his vantage point he can see the Singapore Flyer, halted to a stop now. And he can make out sections of the track still, even when the floodlights have already been switched off.

He probably shouldn’t be admiring the view when he should be focused on burying himself deeper into Charles.

The window pane is as solid as concrete despite the rhythm of their joined bodies against it, despite his scrambling for purchase against the smooth surface. They’ve nearly tumbled a couple of times, sweat-slick skin increasingly hazardous. It’s probably wise to move to the bed instead.

“I think I still want to drink more, but Andrea would murder me— _ oh  _ merde,  _ yes, like that _ .”

They did end up hitting the bar earlier, even if they only had one drink each—a tequila for Daniel, a Jägerbomb for Charles. The twist and grimace on Charles’s face suggested that it might not actually be his usual poison.

Daniel grunts in acknowledgement, quite caught up in maintaining their precariously balanced position. He probably shouldn’t be replaying how the strategy battles during the race unfolded and unraveled while teetering on the edge of coming, either. It does help him keep at it longer, however, the roll and snap of his hips still at a steady pace even when the edges of his vision have started to blur.

They’re there for each other’s comfort, and it’s enough. Easy. Convenient. It doesn’t have to be cheeky and adventurous, fireworks and rapture every single time—sometimes you just need to fuck your frustration about your team’s mishaps out. And whatever else seems to be bothering Charles.

* * *

Daniel is not one to peep at other people’s phone, it just happens to be on the nightstand right beside him when the text pops up. The sender is a familiar name.  _ Thank you, _ it says on the preview.

Perhaps it’s the exhaustion and frustration from the race, perhaps it’s his curiosity finally catching up to him. _ Eh, what the hell. _ “You two still text?”

For a moment, Charles doesn’t answer. Processing the question or contemplating whether or not to answer, Daniel can’t be sure—head laid on Daniel’s stomach and facing away, he can’t read Charles’s face. “Not really. I just congratulated him on the podium.”

“Ah, alrighty.”

Silence descends upon them, heavy, loaded with unspoken truths and confessions not expressed. Daniel doesn’t push. It’s a topic they’ve been tiptoeing around for so long, only ever alluded to, never discussed. Never acknowledged.

Performance-wise, Daniel knows he has been stellar all season. His predecessor won’t be missed too much, he makes sure of it week in, week out.

But Sebastian’s specter has always been there, omnipresent in the team. Will always be there. In the residual glue from the stickers peeled off of the headphones in the garage when they replaced the number five with the number three. In the stack of outdated autograph cards one of the team members found in the factory before the summer break. How Adami still speaks so highly of him.

How his departure seems to have left a gaping void in Charles.

“Do you think he ever sees me?”

He isn’t sure if it’s simply the peculiarities of Charles’s speech, but the way he phrased the question makes Daniel pause.

“I don’t know. Maybe go ask him, we can invite him to our party.”

“Daniel,” Charles warns, lifting his head from where it’s pillowed on Daniel’s abdomen and shifting to face him. Daniel stops carding through Charles’s hair. The look in his eyes is so arresting, so intense in its desperation. “It’s not—it’s not like  _ that _ .”

“What then?”

A pause. Charles rests his head back down, facing away again. “I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“Not some—ah, what’s the word… intellectual curiosity, then,” Daniel tries, feeling like he’s tiptoeing on a minefield.

His not answering is really all Daniel needs to know. 

“Have you two ever—? You know.”

Daniel can hear Charles’s quick intake of breath, feels Charles shake from a soft, inaudible chuckle. “I can’t even talk with him. I just—maybe if we did, I could just get it out of my head, you know? Once and for all.” 

Daniel nods even though he knows Charles can’t see him. “You’re stupid if you think it’ll solve anything. It’ll just make things more complicated.”

“I know.”

“Do you, really?”

Charles shifts again to lie on his stomach, facing Daniel fully now, folding his arms for him to rest his head against. It might simply be the low lighting, but the look Charles is giving him is haunting. He can’t quite remember ever seeing him so lost.

Daniel’s mind, helpful as ever, supplies him scenes from Abu Dhabi last year—he remembers how he was interrupted from his Instagram doomscrolling. There’s something Daniel can’t quite put a finger on, can’t quite put a name to. Something beyond the scope of his comprehension. Something so earnest in the gesture they shared—it was just a helmet swap, for fuck’s sake, he and Charles have done it too, but the photos bled such affection and admiration even through his phone screen. Something so intense, so raw in the whisper of vulnerability he can hear in the way Charles talks about Sebastian, try as he might to pretend to be casual. Something Daniel definitely can’t ever dream to give—not that it’s something either of them would ever want to share. Daniel doesn’t do romance,  _ they _ don’t do romance, never will.

Something he can’t bring himself to try to take advantage of even if he could and probably should. Love and war—all’s fair game. And yet.

“No I don’t. I still—well, you’re cool and all, Daniel, but—” 

“I can’t give you what you need,” Daniel finishes for him. “No, no need to deny it. I’m quite the handsome bastard, but I’m just good ol’ me. He’s… well,  _ him. _ Untouchable—is that the word?”

“Untouchable,” Charles repeats, wrapping his tongue around the word as if tasting it for flavor notes. “Yes. Untouchable.”

And perhaps that exactly  _ is  _ what appeals to Charles. Always striving for the impossible, seducing the unattainable. Daniel expects nothing less.

Daniel has been there too. In a way, he knows. And many wouldn’t, but Daniel  _ understands _ . A starry-eyed kid whose school bus took the route of the Circuit de Monte Carlo, who watched grands prix from his friend’s balcony, who was brought up into the ranks of the Ferrari Driver Academy, probably shares that same passion and love for the myth of the red car and the prancing horse. Probably saw—sees—Sebastian with veneration and envy,  _ I want to achieve what he has too. _ It’s almost a naive and innocent kind of adoration.

“You know we could’ve been on the podium with him.”

True enough, they’ve only shared one so far this season—Spa. Daniel was so caught up with winning to notice anything of note between them, even if he has tried attuning his subconsciousness to them after Monaco.

“ _ That’s _ what’s bothering you and not the fact that the team screwed us over again?”

“ _ Daniel.” _

_ “ _ Nah, I’m kidding, I’m kidding.”

For a moment only silence hangs between them. Not an uncomfortable one. Daniel notes the hum of the air conditioning unit, the buzz of the minifridge, and the sound each of their breathing.

Daniel is first to break the silence. “What’s the rush, though?”

“What? I don’t understand.”

“What’s the rush? To win it all, I mean. It seems to— _ eat you alive. _ You’re still young,” Daniel mutters, his words dragged out. He really isn’t sure where he’s going with this. “Me on the other hand? Yeah, my days are numbered, alright. Tick, tock.”

Charles looks at him with his forehead puckered and eyebrow knitted. “Are you being serious?”  _ Are you dumb? It’s all we’ve given our blood, sweat, tears, and entire life for. Our one dream. _

_ “‘ _ Course not. I was just hoping to plant the idea in your head. Maybe you’ll let me win,” Daniel snickers, tapping the back of his palm against Charles’s cheek.

“Playing mind games now? Not a chance,” Charles quips back with more venom than Daniel expects, but his smile looks fond.

Daniel  _ is _ being serious. There’s being purpose-driven, there’s being motivated, there’s being confident at your own ability. There’s also letting yourself be consumed by an obsession, possessed by the idée fixe. It’s admirable but unsettling at the same time. Daniel can only hope Charles doesn’t have to carve too much of himself away in the process.

“I know, I know. Let’s be fair to each other, at least, yeah? We can’t afford another Monza.”

Charles winces. “Not my best performance.”

“Yeah, not by a long shot. What the hell were you thinking? That I would just back down easily?”

The edges of Charles’s lips sour into a frown. “We’ve discussed this, Daniel, come on.”

“Just in case it hasn’t gone through your thick skull, mate,” Daniel bites back, tapping his index finger against Charles’s forehead.

Did he push too far? Their gazes are locked. Narrowed eyes, sparks of fury. But there remains only the last traces of anger to fuel the fire, so it leaves only the embers of exhaustion and resignation.

“We can’t afford it,” Daniel starts, pressing his lips into a tight smile. “The Mercs are too close.”

Charles sighs, mirroring his smile. An armistice offered and accepted. “I still won’t go easy on you, though.”

“Never said or hoped you would.”

The silence weighs heavy. Charles lowers his gaze, pensive. When he opens his mouth to speak again, the air is choked with the uncertainty of someone who wants to say something but finding no words to say it.

“It’s just—we never know what will happen in the future.  _ If _ there will be another chance,” Charles says with a deliberate slowing to his words, as if he was on the media pen being careful not to give bloodthirsty journalists incriminating soundbites. “What if  _ this _ is the one lucky break?”

_ What if it all unravels again next year, what if I’ll never win it in red?  _ Is what reaches Daniel’s ears.

Rather than a straight up glass half full sort of person, Daniel considers himself more of an optimistic realist. True enough, the Scuderia has chewed up and spit out many, many talents, grinding their resolve to fine dust. Even a four-time winner ended up on the other side of the supposed paradise with his star shining several magnitudes less bright. Ferrari has robbed so many of their fuel to set the world alight.

If the  _ rosso corsa _ is looking increasingly less saturated to the man hailed to be the heir to the myth himself, maybe they  _ are _ rather screwed. Thirteen years of drought and counting. It’s about time they break the curse, live up to the legend seven decades in the making. It’s too long overdue.

There is power in words. Say it enough times and maybe they will be able to speak it into existence.

_ Make your own luck, shape your own destiny. _

Daniel shifts, unfolding the arm tucked under his head to reach for Charles. Caresses his cheek with a thumb.

“We’ll bring it home, Charles. Let’s bring it home.”

* * *

**_Epilogue_ **

The pit lane is open for the penultimate race of the 2021 season. The sun is baking, Brazillian weather in all its glory. Not a single cloud hangs in the sky.

Daniel slots into his grid spot. Charles is eight meters ahead and eight points behind.

They climb out of the cockpit as the engineers and mechanics rush in for the pre-race preparations, meeting each other halfway on the tarmac. 

“May the best man win,” they echo each other.

The clock strikes ten past.

One, two, three, four, five lights.

And then, none.

_ May the best man win. _

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Science Fiction by Christine and the Queens: _(He) holds the heart of the dying star_
> 
> [Spotify Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4DPS4VYqgijdxJwiutIRzd?si=IDGXwhfMQle9zYhUywgSCwSpotify)


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